


Rehab (Or...)

by classiqfemme



Category: Necessary Roughness
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Explicit Language, Recreational Drug Use, deals with addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classiqfemme/pseuds/classiqfemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T.K. is in rehab; he can handle it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rehab (Or...)

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome all feedback!

                Terrence (and he can call himself Terrence here—there’s no bully on the playground he needs to dodge, no social worker trying to talk to him like an adult) doesn’t really mind rehab. There’s a private gym no one else uses, a horse that doesn’t smile at him like it wants something, a pool where all the ladies coming off cocaine-bloat flaunt their talents… He doesn’t mind. T.K. minds the thin walls and klepto/narco/whatever they’re called masturbating freak next door. He minds the muscle twitches he didn’t ask for, the weird triple vodka feeling his legs keep doing, and the feeling in his chest like he’s just missed something, just dropped a ball, just pissed off Doctor D., just pulled a hunk of weeds out of his Mom’s grave, just ran a sprint hung-over, just fucked a girl too blurry to see… He minds that. He minds that a lot. They took his diamonds when he was checked in. They took his shoelaces and what was that about? Did they really need his belt because really?! a man needs a belt.  But really, he doesn’t mind rehab all that much.

                His first meeting with the shrink doesn’t go so well, admittedly there were some words exchanged, he can’t lie… it’s possible he was coming off something that maybe… sort of… look, it happened, and he’s past it, so let it go. The second meeting this new doc tosses him a bag of jelly beans he nearly drops (IT WAS THE A BAD THROW! He’s not backsliding or rewinding or dealing with shit. He just couldn’t reach the roll—bag. He couldn’t reach the bag.), but they’re sour and make his stomach hurt and his tongue turns colors and the ladies by the pool, you know? They don’t want any blue tongues coming their way; it’s a respect thing, alright?  And the doctor doesn’t look at him and calls for security when he speaks like he’s some… some… He makes Terrence think of all the nice white ladies who taught ‘in the hood’ for a semester and thought that meant something. Like they could go back to their three story houses with yappy dogs and pretend like they grew or some shit. And… and he misses Doctor D. He misses her couch, her jelly beans, Ray Jay’s outdated Nintendo, and the one block of paint on the wall that hasn’t faded yet. He misses Sneako’s silent shoes and the faint smile a banana in the exhaust pipe could bring. He misses his teammates. He misses the ring that should be on his finger, he misses the pounding heat of sun on his skin, he misses locker room sweat, the bodega on the corner that always has champagne, that pretty little honey who always came when he called, the boomSIGHHHH of his pills kicking in, the thrum of cars under his window…

                But really, rehab isn’t that bad. Sure, he spends a crazy amount of time listening to people talk about problems he doesn’t have and being told to be “supportive”… as if that means anything. As if “supportive” ever got him anywhere… But fine, he can nod his head and thank the CEO for talking about how much pressure he’s under at work. He can do that. Doctor D. wants him to do that so fine. He can nod. He’s here, isn’t he? Good. So. Continue.

                The doctor tells the orderlies to search his room and that’s just not right. A man has a right to his privacy, damn it. He doesn’t need some white boy from Minne-fucking-sota going through his drawers. He doesn’t need his bed pulled apart like he’s some criminal and that’s just some racial profiling bullshit, you know it is! So what they found a bottle of Jameson, he’s in here for pills, remember? Does he have to teach these people how to do their jobs or what?

                He’s shaking and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He can barely do fifty push-ups before he has to stop. He can’t sprint worth a damn. They’re ruining him. He won’t have a career after this. It’s bad enough the press will find out but now? Now he has to retire. He has to hang up his uniform and go the way of the Dodo. He’s done. T.K. is fucked.

                He’s got twenty days left here and he’s learning how to ride a horse. It bites, he shakes, and one of them eats a carrot. At some point he wears a stupid hat and the klepto/misogynist/banker neighbor sings America (What? He knows music).

                 There are eighteen days left to his rehab. What the hell does Doctor D. know anyway? He misses whiskey. Misses. M-I-S-S-E-S. He doesn’t NEED it, he just likes the taste. He likes the smoke of the burn. He likes chasing it with a pill to cool the burn. There’s nothing wrong with that he just… It’s prescription, alright?! He got shot. There was a man and he had a gun and he got shot (so what if the pronouns get mixed up in his head? So what? He can still catch a bag—ball. He can out-sprint anyone. He’s T.K., alright? Just let him out of here and he can do anything…).

                T.K. makes sweet, _sweet_ love to (Fucks. Terrence fucks) one of the coke-bloated starlets. He isn’t looking for positive attention, he isn’t looking for female companionship, and he isn’t looking to bury his problems, _Doc_ … He just wanted to feel something and that’s normal, right? And it was all consensual and wrapped up so what’s the problem?

                T.K. has a laugh like bullets hitting brick. People startle at his laugh. His laugh turns heads. He leaves some motherfucking damage when he laughs.  Terrence’s laugh was never noticed. Not in a good way. It was a giggle that got him hit. It got him noticed. It got his nose in a corner for hours, it got his boxers up his ass, it got his name chanted up and down the street. _Terrence… Terrence… Terrence…_ And what the fuck else is there to do to that but laugh? So T.K. _laughs_. 

                There’s a weird little banker-type fuck living next to him who palms him who-the-fuck-knows-what and laughs in group. Terrence winces at the girl who smokes coke to feel loved. It hits… He sits quietly and counts his heartbeats until the pill wears off. The next girl has a show he watches and Terrence loses it. Walks right through the circle to hug her because even Doctor D. knew when words aren’t enough.

                Terrence’s privileges have been suspended for “inappropriate conduct”. No more pool, no more gym, no more _nothing_  until the doctor decides he’s sorry. Terrence knows he’s sorry. Knows he’s pathetic and sad and sorry. He’s _sorry_ , ok?! What more do you want him to say? That he’s…

                T.K. gets on a horse and rides away with the wanking banker or whoever the fuck.


End file.
